


cold, so cold (without you to hold)

by liionne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, 5 Times, Christmas, Cuties, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, M/M, New Year's Eve, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, being cuties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, five Christmases in the lives of Steve and Bucky, and one very happy New Year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cold, so cold (without you to hold)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of christmas angst and fluff because I fucking love Christmas. Apologies for any mistakes, as unbeta'd.

**1\. 1923**

 

Steve is deaf in his right ear. Bucky knows that. He knows that and so he's positioned himself on Steve's left so that the other can hear them whilst they play with the little toy cars Bucky's dad had bought him the Christmas before. But Bucky? Bucky's not deaf at all. So he can hear Mrs Rogers and Mrs Barnes whilst they sit sipping coffee at the kitchen table, their sons sitting on the floor not too far away.

"I just don't know what I'm going to do, with Joseph gone." Mrs. Rogers murmurs. Bucky doesn't look up, not whilst he and Steve are racing (because he doesn't want to lose), but he's still listening. "It was hard enough last year, with both our wages, but now--"

"You know we're happy to help you out, Sarah," Bucky's ma replies, her voice just as soft. Steve obviously can't hear them; they're off to his right, safely in the clear.

There's silence for a moment, and then Sarah replies, "I couldn't do that. I know you and George work, but- no. I couldn't."

Silence, again, and Bucky's car wins as he pushes it over the finish line.

~*~

On Christmas morning, Bucky's dad hands him two boxes (because he asked for two presents this year, which he knows is a little greedy, but he doesn't think santa will mind too much) and he carefully shakes them. One rattles, and so he sets that one down, and he opens the other to find a model plane. He grins, and when his dad asks if he want to go play with it, Bucky says _no_.

His dad is startled. His ma isn't.

"Can I go round to Steve's now?" He asks.

Bucky's dad looks to his mother, incredulous.

"It's not even past breakfast, son-"

"Oh. Right. We should take breakfast there too! And maybe lunch. We got enough for all of us, ain't we?"

Mrs. Barnes is smiling. She gives her husband a nod, and Bucky's dad looks down at his son. "I suppose so." He agrees.

Bucky leads the way, his second present in his hands, his mother carrying the food, and his father carrying the box with his model plane in it. Steve only lives down the hall, and so they’re there fast, knocking on the door and waiting for an answer.

When they get there, Mrs. Rogers looks at them incredulously.

“I-”

“I got a present for Stevie!” Bucky declares. “‘n we brought breakfast, ‘n dinner, ‘n- Stevie!”

Steve appears from behind his mother’s legs, fringe falling into his little face. He brushes it back hastily, and tilts his head to the side.

“What you doin’, Buck? ‘s Christmas.”

Bucky holds out the gift, and Steve just stares, until Mrs. Barnes says, “Give it to him inside, Jimmy.”

He nods, and stomps inside. The adults follow suit, and he can hear them as he hands Steve is gift, watching his eyes go wide as he tears open the parcel.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Mrs. Rogers says, “Really, I mean-”

“It wasn’t our idea.” Mrs. Barnes interrupts. Steve shrieks as he opens up a package of coloured pencils and a sketchbook.

“Definitely wasn’t mine.” Mr. Barnes adds, and his wife laughs.

There’s silence as Steve beams at Bucky and thanks him from his present, but Bucky shrugs his shoulders, tells him to get started. Steve quite happily flicks to the first page and starts drawing. Bucky picks up on the conversation over Steve’s shoulders.

“-all his idea. Wow.” Mrs. Rogers crosses her arms, and then huffs. “He’s a good boy, yours.”

“Couldn’t ask for better,” Mrs. Barnes answers, and Bucky looks up, beams, and then asks Steve if he’ll draw Mrs. Jones’ dog from across the hall.

 

** 2\. 1939 **

 

Bucky has prepared pretty god damn well for this Christmas. He and Steve have been working their asses off; Bucky's stayed at the garage late almost every day for three months, earned himself a pretty fat Christmas bonus, and Steve had been working every damn day he could at the grocery store. They had themselves enough for a good meal, for a gift each.

And Steve is sick. Really sick.

Bucky spends Christmas Eve sitting by Steve's bed, Steve's clammy hand in his own. He's burning up, everywhere except his hands, forehead and chest and arms feverish. His cheeks are bright pink with it, but the rest of his skin is pale, almost translucent. His eyelashes stand out sharply, strongly, against his cheeks. Bucky pets golden hair, which sticks to Steve's forehead as he combs it down. Steve is deathly silent; Bucky has to put his hand on his chest sometimes, just to feel the up and down motion of it, make sure he's definitely still there.

Bucky spends a lot of his time praying.

He doesn't know how long he sits there. The sun starts out high, glinting off the snow outside, off of the windows of the apartment building opposite. It sinks lower, and lower, and lower, until the room is dark and Bucky is forced to go and light a candle. The walls are paper thin; he hears Mrs. Garner's Grandfather Clock strike 12, and he falls asleep some time after.

He wakes to feel fingers running through his hair. It's a nice feeling, and he hums softly, only to then sit up ramrod straight. Steve's sick. There are fingers running through his hair that aren't his own. It's Christmas morning. It's freaking _freezing_.

"Merry Christmas, Buck."

Bucky looks up to see Steve smiling at him out of barely open eyes, his hand running through Bucky's hair once again. Bucky could catch his palm and kiss him (and he's been having a lot of thoughts like that lately, it's freaking weird) but he doesn't. He just beams at Steve, bright, happy, unbelievably freaking happy, before pressing the back of his hand to Steve's forehead. The fever's broken. Bucky could cry.

"Look under the bed." Steve instructs. His voice is hoarse, but it's the sweetest sound Bucky has ever heard. He does as he's told, looking under the bed, and he finds a box wrapped in newspaper. He smiles softly as he pulls it out; he looks at Steve, who nods, and then he opens it.

It's a shoe box. And inside are maybe the most beautiful pair of dress shoes Bucky has ever seen in his entire freaking life. He's seen them before, in the store window. He must have looked a split second too long because now here they are, in his lap. He never would have been able to afford them, not on his usual wage, and he knows they've both been working hard for months, but honestly? He has no idea how Steve afforded them either.

"Jesus, Stevie..." He says, taking them out. They're his size. 'Course they are.

Steve smiles. "Your old pair've got a hole in them. How you gonna get the dames if you don't look the part, huh?"

Bucky looks up, and meets Steve's smile. He gives his hand a gentle squeeze, so scared to bruise tender flesh or break bird-like bones, and then it's time to properly get Christmas started.

  
  


** 3\. 1944 **

 

"Jesus fucking Christ, if I'd known freezing my balls off was gonna be a part'a this trip I would'a let 'em send me home."

Steve rolls his eyes from where Bucky is griping and complaining, sat in the officer's tent, his pea coat and Steve's leather jacket wrapped around him. He's still shivering, Steve notes, teeth chattering as he mutters expletives to himself. Steve walks over to Bucky's bed, and throws down his blanket on top of him. "There." He says, giving him a smirk. "Quit your yappin'."

Steve retreats to his bed, and looks at the watch on his arm. Almost midnight. They've celebrated Christmas Eve, sang a few stupid songs round a campfire and ate the marshmallows Dernier had stolen from a Nazi Officer's pocket. Steve had felt guilty for all of three seconds after he'd shoved one into his mouth.

But now they've gone to bed, the Alpine wind ripping around their tents and creating drafts, chilling them all. Well. Except Steve. Steve's pretty freaking toasty all of the time now, and seeing as he's still in his Captain America get up, he's not losing any heat any time soon. He curls up on is bed next to Bucky, and plans to go to sleep.

But then Bucky is staring at him in the darkness, grey eyes wide.

"...What?" Steve asks, and Bucky blinks.

"You ain't got a blanket, Stevie." He whispers, and Steve shrugs his shoulders.

"Don't need one."

Bucky shakes his head. "You'll freeze."

"I'll be fine. _You'll_ freeze."

"Stevie--"

"Buck, I'm fine--"

" _Stevie_ \--"

"Buck, for the love of god--"

"But Steve--"

"Fine, god damn it, you're unbelievable."

Steve gets up, and Bucky holds his blanket out to him. But Steve has other plans. He slips underneath with Bucky and lays down on his side, arm tucked awkwardly into his body. He'd drape it over Bucky, but he's not entirely sure that his friend would want that.

"What are you doing?" Bucky asks, incredulous. His eyes are wide, and he's shifting nervously.

"Sharing body heat." He answers stoicly, head resting on the pillow, eyes closed. "Now lie down, Buck. You're letting all the heat out."

Slowly, Bucky does as he's told. He lies down facing Steve, a small space between them. But Bucky is still shivering, teeth chattering, and so Steve does the only logical thing left: he pulls him close.

Bucky just makes a noise, sounding somewhat strangled, but he doesn't argue. His head is tucked under Steve's chin, and they'd done this so many times, the other way round, Steve curled up next to Bucky and Bucky holding him tight. But now it's Steve doing the holding, arm tight around Bucky's waist.

Bucky's teeth stop chattering. The shaking stops. Steve looks at his watch; it's past midnight.

"Merry Christmas, Buck."

"Merry Christmas, Stevie."

They lie like that, tangled in one another's embrace. Steve's warm, and content, and he tries not to think about how long he's wanted to do this as he drops off to sleep.

 

**4\. 2012**

 

Steve’s very first Christmas since waking up. New York is still healing from the bruises and the deep wounds that had been inflicted upon it by Loki and by the Chitauri, and so Steve had left; he wanted to lick his own wounds and keep his head down for a while, he didn’t want to do press releases and god knows what else. So he’s in DC, far from Manhattan and far from Brooklyn, where he aches to go but is far too scared to. He needs to move on from that. From Brooklyn. From his old home.

From Bucky.

Because he’s dead. And it didn’t happen a few months ago. Steve didn’t just see Bucky the other day. It happened seventy years ago, and everyone and their dog has moved on. The nation has moved on. Everyone.

Steve _can’t_.

He lies in bed, on his side, having woken up from a nightmare. Natasha’s tried to call him today, three times, but he hasn’t picked up. He hasn’t picked up a single time. And he has good reason to, to be honest. The holidays are horrible time to be alone, sure, and she’s giving him the offer to _not_ be alone, but no. Steve’s happy to wallow in his own misery.

He stares at the empty space beside him, and closes his eyes. If he can focus he can feel a shadow beside him, a warmth. A presence that hasn’t been there for a long time, according to everyone else, but that has been beside Steve every single night since he woke up from the ice.

If he can really focus, properly tune everything out, he can pretend he’s in a tent, in the Alps. Or in a rickety old bed, in Brooklyn. And he can pretend that he still feels Bucky’s breath on his face, the thudding of his heart beneath his palm.

He opens his eyes, and sees that the clock reads 00:09.

“Merry Christmas, Buck.” He murmurs into the still night air.

He doesn’t get a response.

He closes his eyes.

 

**5\. 2015**

 

It’s been a hell of a long road. Bucky came back over a year ago, but it was like keeping a feral cat. He would come and go as he pleased, he would hang around in corners, literally taking to hissing and raising his hackles whenever Steve got too close. But then he would hang around him more and more with every passing week. He took to sitting with Steve in the same room, but if Steve got too close, he would leave. And then he got to staying, no matter where Steve was. Then he took to sitting on the same sofa as him. And then, after a drunken confession and a lot of crying, and a kiss, he started settling in Steve’s lap.

The cat metaphor’s a pretty good one, come to think of it.

But it’s Christmas, and Bucky has made it a hell of a long way. They’ve been dating - properly dating, like _going on dates and learning all about each other_ \- for a good six months now. Bucky has the majority of his memories back, too, though he’s not the man he was before.

That doesn’t matter to Steve. He still has Bucky back.

And it’s their first proper Christmas as a _couple_. Boyfriends. Legitimate. Maybe more than boyfriends; boyfriends sounds like they’re in high school, like they’ve been seeing each other for two weeks. _Partners_ works better. Steve likes the term _soul mates_ , but he hasn’t told anyone about that yet.

On Christmas morning, they spend a long time lying in bed. They’ve both woken early, so they know they have a little more time to spend in bed, should they so wish. And they do wish. They lie on their sides, facing each other, and at nine o’clock Steve reaches out to push a stray lock of long hair from Bucky’s face, tucking it behind his ear.

“We should go open presents.” He says.

Bucky hums softly in agreement. “Let’s go.” He murmurs. He takes Steve’s hand, and he slips out of bed.

Steve has a few presents for Bucky that he’s been hiding, knowing Bucky would only open them if he found them. Honestly, it’s a miracle he managed to keep them safe. But obviously, Bucky didn’t suspect taking out the middle floorboard in the airing cupboard. It was a risky move, but the presents (Bucky’s old dog tags, a new, fancy camera and tickets to the Russian Ballet in the New Year) are fine. Steve grins as he brings them back into the living room, until he catches sight of Bucky. He’s standing with his back mostly to Steve, a small box in his hand. A jewelery box, for sure; small and square and blue velvet, maybe a ring box? Something like that. Steve’s head tilts.

“What’s that?” He asks.

Bucky spins to face him, but he doesn’t look shocked. No; of course he knew Steve was coming. But he just gives him a small smile, and shrugs his shoulders.

“Present for Natalia. Must have forgot to put it in the bag.”

His smile doesn’t quite seem real; Steve can’t decide why Bucky would lie, so he settles, and tries to ignore the small, gnawing feeling of anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach. Instead, he holds Bucky’s presents out, and grins.

“Merry Christmas, Buck.”

Bucky produces a pile of presents of his own, and says, “Merry Christmas, Stevie.”

 

**+1 New Year’s**

 

Stark’s fancy new year bash is being held in Avengers Tower this year, on one of the lower floors. It’s not too bad, to be fair. The two of them had dressed up in their monkey suits, showed their faces, and then headed to the roof where most of the other Avengers were anyway. And that’s where Steve and Bucky are now, hand in hand at the balcony, tuxedo jackets on against the cold night air, huddling close together to drive out the chill.

A few more people have no clambered onto the roof; Stark’s not doing fireworks of his own, but there’ll be plenty right across the city tonight. So a few more people filter onto the roof, but Steve and Bucky stay huddled in their own little bubble.

“Ten seconds to midnight!” Someone yells. Bucky seems to tense by his side, and so Steve takes a better hold of his hand, gives it a gentle squeeze. He doesn’t know what it is; maybe it’s the expectation of the loud noise, maybe it’s the extra people, or maybe it’s the cold. Whatever it is, Steve just wants to help Bucky feel better.

There’s chanting going on around them, people counting down. Steve directs his gaze to the horizon, ready to watch it explode in colour, when he hears a few gasps around him. It’s then, he notices, that Bucky’s hand has slipped from his.

And as he turns, he sees Bucky down on one knee. And in his hand, the ring box from Christmas day, open to reveal a plain, silver band. Steve’s heart begins to jack hammer, his stomach doing back flips.

“Bucky.” He whispers.

“Marry me, Steve?”

It’s a second of silence. One single second. And yet it feels like an eon. Bucky is proposing. _Proposing_. To _Steve_. Down on one knee in front of so many people, and-

And Steve fucking _loves_ him.

“Yes.”

He nods, tugs Bucky to standing so he can wrap his arms around him and tug him closer, crush him against his chest and kiss him. Fireworks erupt around them, but he has a feeling the cheering is less for the display in the night sky and more for the display they’re putting on themselves.

“Yes, god yes, Bucky-”

Bucky’s laughing, beaming against Steve’s lips as he takes his hand and slips the ring on, knocking their foreheads together as they look down at it. It looks good. It looks really freaking good.

“I love you, Stevie.”

Steve looks up, and meets Bucky’s gaze. He kisses him like it’s the very first time, and the very last time, and he grins right back at him when he pulls away.

“I love you too, Buck.”


End file.
